RED
by JustShotMarvin
Summary: Jing bleeds out. [He didn't like the colour red.]


**RED**

**by paperxflowers**

He didn't like the colour red.

Strange, yes, but he didn't like the colour. It hurt his eyes and burned his retinas. He hadn't liked the colour since he was a kid. Something about it triggered something in him. His synapses would fire off like gunshots and he'd get "the fear."

"The fear," as he had referred to it since he was a boy, was the irrational bursts of panic he sometimes was attacked by. It began in the pit of his stomach and crawled up his spine, across his nerves, and through his brain like fire ants. His hands would quiver, his breath would quicken, and his heart would race.

In truth, he fell victim to "the fear" often, but he had gotten good at hiding it from everyone. Not even his closest friends could tell when he was panicking.

Sometimes, he couldn't tell when he was panicking.

But red...

he didn't like the colour red.

For some reason, red brought back memories he didn't think he had. Memories of gunshots and screaming and the sound of a fragile body smashing against each and every step. The sound of bones cracking would echo in his head, gaining momentum, becoming such a cacophony of noise and shrieks that it turned into an ugly, red noise. Like the sound of someone being strangled underwater. It would start, repeat, reiterate, stop.

Start, repeat, reiterate, stop.

Start, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat--

_STOP!_

His mind would scream in a high, childish pitch and he could feel the bile rising in his throat. It stung his esophagus and tasted like acid.

He'd fight his hardest against those irrational, incomprehensible impulses and usually he'd win out.

Only right now...?

"The fear" had never surged through him so violently as he stared down at the colour splattered on his hand. Thick, chunky red stained rough, tanned fingers. He was trying to process _what _was going on, but his body wasn't letting him. Suddenly, a pressure built up in his chest, he curled up into himself, and his hand flew to cover his mouth. His body, usually strong and graceful, was hunched over in the darkness of a hotel bathroom.

A violent, wracking cough forced it's way out of him and he watched his reflection heave crimson into his hand. It ran past his fingers and dripped little drops into the curved surface of the white sink.

_Oh GOD..._

His mind was reeling, his body was coming apart, and he couldn't catch up with either of them.

He slipped.

He never slipped.

He slipped and grabbed desperately for the edge of the sink to keep himself standing, but it was hopeless. He'd grabbed at the counter with his bloodied hand and it had slid off the smooth surface. A body heavy with exhaustion and terror slammed to the tiled floor. Stars exploded across his already hazy vision as his head cracked on the linoleum and he wanted to cry out, but he forced it back.

Something wet began to soak his hair and he picked himself up off the floor. The wetness now ran from his hairline, down the side of his face, and dripped on to his black pants. On the floor was a bright smear of scarlet where his head had connected.

His back was pressed against the cabinets in the bathroom, his head tilted back, and his cheat heaved with every breath. The air burned its way down his throat and his lungs protested every time they would inflate and deflate. Pain screamed through his muscles and there was a constant ache in the back of his head. More liquid poured down his face and now slithered, slow and deliberate, down the curve of his neck.

_How did I get in here?_

That was a good question. Despite the fact that it hurt to think right now, he wracked his brain. Something had scared him? No. No. He didn't get scared. Children got scared. He was a grown man.

He'd turned twenty-three yesterday.

_Stop getting distracted, _he internally berated himself. He discovered that he was covered in a cold sweat and the back of his hair was now slicked to his neck. As he heaved for breath, something clicked within his steel coloured eyes.

That was right.

He had waken from a nightmare. That wasn't anything new.

He had waken from a nightmare and had felt like he was going to be violently ill. He'd staggered into the bathroom and...

His neck craned to peer fearfully at his hand. What had been a few specks of carmine before now covered his entire hand. With a jerky twitch of his eyes, he looked away from the sight. He wanted to pick himself up and clean himself off, but he had a feeling if he tried to do that, his head would meet the floor again. So he tried to just think of something else. Anything else.

His mind had chosen his nightmare.

_"Happy birthday to you," _a woman's voice had sung in his ear. Just thinking of the memory now brought a smile across his haggard looking face. _"Happy birthday to you..." _There had been the sensation of utter elation as a small cake was placed in front of him. Five candles burned brightly in the darkness of a small, cramped kitchen. The light from the flames danced off the long, black locks of the woman's thick hair and created a gentle halo of light around her head. _"Happy birthday, sweetheart,"_ she cooed gently. He sat up some, gathering all the air he could fit into his tiny lungs. _"Happy birthday to--"_

And then things changed. Everything seemed to suddenly shift to a right angle and he toppled out of his chair. His tiny figure slammed violently against the wall and he let out a yelp. The world went black. She began to yell at _that man_ and then there was the crack of flesh on flesh. Screaming tore through the happy memory the way children tore into presents.

_"GET AWAY FROM HIM!" _

A gunshot.

No.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

And then the sound of a body slamming into each stair. Bones crunching had burned in his ears. Everything was so dark. He hadn't been able to see her in all of it. He'd cried out for her, tried to find her, tried to find out where she was, but there was no response. There were no more screams. There was no more sound. There was only his whimpering and then...

At the bottom of the stairs was a small figured woman. Her black hair had splayed out like a net across the floors. Her eyes were wide open and her lips were parted in an unfinished scream. Her hand rest over her chest, but something wasn't quite right.

_Not quite right_

_NOT QUITE RIGHT  
**NOT.**_

_**QUITE.**_

_**RIGHT.**_

He remembered why he didn't like the colour red.

It was pouring out of five, gaping holes in her chest; was pooling around her; was covering the stairs she had been thrown down.

It was **everywhere.**

_Oh god... Oh god..._

He didn't feel too good. He tried to force away his nightmare, but it was too late. The damage had been done. Actually, the damage had been done years ago and he was just picking at the scab and then making it bigger. A convulsion wracked his body, he gasped for breath, and curled up into himself again. A rough, heaving cough brought a wave of thick, disgusting crimson out of him.

Not just once, or twice. Three times.

He hurt everywhere and he didn't know how to stop it. He couldn't hide this agony, he couldn't pretend it was an accident. A person could only play hide and seek for so long before they were found. Now his eyes were burning and he felt like they were on fire. As the burning got worse, his vision blurred more and more.

His body convulsed and he feared with it, more red would come. Something else happened. A choked noise escaped him; a broken, strangled whimpering. And it kept on coming, try as he might to stop it.

Sobs were tearing down a carefully constructed wall. Each one kicked out the bricks that had kept him safe for such a long, long time. As the wall toppled, the tears came with it. They streamed down his face and landed on his bloodied hands.

Pathetic.

Another sob and he brought his knees up to his chest. His hid his face in his arms, but the sounds weren't muffled. They seemed louder in his ears. Were grown men allowed to admit to being frightened? He was terrified. Terrified of what was wrong with him, terrified of that colour, and terrified of that gaping lonliness now clawing at his chest.

He wanted his mother, now more than ever, but his mother had gone in a pool of red.

He didn't like the colour red.

**.fin.  
**----------

_Sometimes you gotta let it all out._

_If you can tell me what happened in Jing's nightmare, you win some serious points._

_Written in two and a half hours the night before school starts. I should be in bed._

_--paperxflowers_


End file.
